The Lullaby of Priests

SAN MINIATO

The chant is serene and mostly monotone. The acoustics of the church are incredible: the lullaby of the voices in song carries through the marble hallway, pausing only to sweep in a circle around the cylindrical columns throughout the chapel. A mixture of complex and simplistic columns cut into the chapel space, forming retreating rows of gothic archways from my vantage point on the marble staircase.

It is a sweeping tide, the way things travel through crowds of humans. Disease, depression, piety, and love. A row in the bleachers stands up in respect; a row in the back follows suit. A few debate while one on the opposite side stands defiantly. Next to her, a man reluctantly rises, then a women a few seats down. Finally, a row stands. It is a wave, a disease of respect, with perhaps just a dash of piety thrown in for good measure.

The voices meet in unison, each leaping through the air to the conclave at the triangulation point. They reach their destination, forming a whole, and drift together in a hazy cloud.

Now, one voice is soft and broken. He wails in thinly veiled fear, suffering, and supplication. They are like a chorus. And then the rushing tide calms and the audience takes a seat for the main event. He preaches, while the others serve only as a background to enhance his words.

The Elusive Scent of Orvieto

What is a life without smell? This sickness has stolen all scents from me. I mourn, for I cannot smell Orvieto. I can taste the crispness of the light summer air. I can feel the warmth of the sun’s embrace. But I cannot smell the air. I can only imagine.

Killing the Spirit of Rome

We hear so much about the recycling of Rome, how everything has been used and reused (just like my site, the Colosseum). Yet, today our focus is on the preservation of the old. We are careful with the ancients. Who NOW would dare to paint over a fresco, to make the Colosseum into part of a new palace wall? Are we killing the spirit of Rome by preserving instead of reusing?

The Anger of Obelisks

The obelisk speaks! Castor and Pollux are angry; their eyes do not reveal their anger, but they are indeed angry, for what mythological character would want to be intentionally “mistaken” for a mortal leader? The mythological immortals have no need for a mortal façade. But people see as they wish, and alas, the stones cannot speak. They can only sit, fuming in anger.

Nasal Ambush

We are assaulted! It is an ambush on our noses; few smells are as putrid as the odor of old bottles, discarded containers of food, and rancid leaves soaked in years, decades, centuries of filthy water. The fountain trickles continuously, oblivious to the sludge. It directs its attention only on living noses, not the quiet, unassuming stones.

Diseased Castle

The walls have pockmarks from centuries of disease; the Castel Sant’Angelo has measles. The archangel Michael is an insufficient protector against the disease of plunderers, looters: it is a miracle he stands at all.

We are surrounded by weapons, but Christina tells us it is a chapel. Chains and guns flank us: what a strange dichotomy of religion and violence. But this is no dichotomy at all, in a world of religious war. It only seems to be one.

Tell Me a Story

The frescoes tell a story: a king with leprosy, messengers visiting the Pope, a baptism, the Pope is crowned. Today’s art is so much less lively: we capture moments, or indescribable modern art blobs. I suppose some would say it is more lively, since we can tell our own story, but sometimes it is nice to have it explained to us; sometimes it is nice just to read and not write.

Bouncing Water

The water here is puzzling: it bounces! I watch as a droplet descends from an orifice in the stone, falling a straight line down to the transparent green water below. It hits the surface, and it bounces back up. Everything in this cloister is magical, even the droplets of bouncing water.

Life Without Words

What would it take for me to give up my voice? I have morals, beliefs, convictions. I do not drink alcohol, I do not smoke cigarettes, nor use drugs. I do not download songs or movies from the internet, I do not purchase tabloids, and I do not steal. I am not adulterous. Yet, these sacrifices seem trivial, for I still have my voice. I can speak with more than mere expressions. I can tell others how I feel, instead of just showing them. What is life without words?

The Skin of Birds

Why is a feather so beautiful? We do not revel in the fallen skin flakes of our own bodies, in the torn off scabs and little broken strands of hair. We do not love the scales of fish or the spikes of porcupines, but we love the feathers of birds. They are regal in their separation from the source, beautiful in their departure. Unlike our own skin, which disgusts us, the skin of birds is beautiful.

Two-Question Questionnaire

1. What do you most strongly believe in? (Choose one)

____________________________


2. What would you sacrifice for this cause/belief? (Check all that apply)

E___.__ / $___.__
Computer
Car
House
Education
Jewelry
Marriage
Money
Food
Showering
Sex
Arm
Hair
Sight
Medicine
Pictures
Love
Voice
Child
Life

The Lively Twig

The twig moves of its own accord! It is a nondescript twig: two colors but both are natural, both blend. Half black, half tan. It moves steadily but fairly quickly, for something of such a miniscule size. It stumbles over a cigarette butt twenty times its size. It moves, moves, moves until it is out of sight, disappearing into the cracks between the cobblestones we tread upon.

The Wind

DAY
The healing light streams in through an open shutter. Just one, not two, are open, but it is enough. I lie in bed, coughing on the outside and dying on the inside- but some cynics remind us that we are always dying, so I will state that I am dying faster than most at the moment. I despair; it feels as though nothing will ever cure me. Nothing but the light, the beams of golden Roman light, as simple as the white marble remains of today, as ornate as the stuccoed, frescoed décor of old Rome. Today, the healing light has chosen me, and it will not let me slip. Today, I am saved, for Rome embraces me.


NIGHT
The sinister breeze gushes through the open window. It is night, and I hear a low cackle emanating from outside. It is the Wind; she speaks to me in hushed, ominous whispers. She both warns and threatens; she is not the worst out there. I only continue to stare into the mirror: there is no fear there. My features are serene.

Two Perspectives on the World

A Study of Mark and Joel

M: Look at the four pigeons! They're fighting over a crumb.
J: What are you TALKING about? They're sharing!
M: No, look, they're tearing pieces off!
J: No, see, they're working together to pull the piece apart so they can all have some.
M: But the big one is about to tell the rest to back off!
J: No, no, he's teaching them, like "this is how you do it."
M: You're wrong. They're obviously fighting. Look at that!
J: They're helping each other!

Pieces of Siena

We stroll down the path of bricks with rotten fruit as mortar. The picturesque beauty is only enhanced by the presence of my four delightful companions, two of whom (one Matthew and one Erina) merrily belt out their own, disharmonized version of Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.”

*****

The clap of thunder, the roar of engines, and the wail of sirens cannot compete with this: the sound of utter, absolute Silence. It is ever pervasive, filtering in, through and around us. We are awed. It is a disease; the Silence around us steals our own voices, and we make no attempt to win them back. Instead, we let Silence win, for she so very rarely wins today, and such beauty deserves an occasional victory.

*****

Matt informs us that Rick Steves told him about the dome in the distance. The colossal dome was intended to cover the largest church of its time. Now, it is but a monument to a colossal failure, for that church was never completed. Not even a hundred years later, as Brunelleschi’s Florentine dome completed the unfinished church. We always ask, “Who could live up to such rampant success?” But, the true question is, “Who could live up to such rampant failure?”

Secret Passageways

Secret passageways live in movies and novels, not here! Not now, not for real! But she shows us the passageways, and we walk through them. I tell Christina that I want secret passageways of my very own; she nods in accord. But do I? I wonder how safe these passageways were. After all, a passageway of exit is always a potential passageway of entry. And what then?

The Flood Markers

Imagine unearthing these torn documents and damaged frescoes. I picture an art historian kneeling to her chest in mud and sludge, clutching an ancient scroll and sobbing; even in her sorrow, she is careful that her tears should not fall upon the precious document. Instead, they fall down her cheeks and dabble past, adding to the devastation of the flood water.

Railway Graffiti

It is the signature of a brave culture, the art of lurking in dark alleyways. An illegal art, where practicing to perfection is against the law. Defacement of property. And yet, it is beautiful. Beautifully vibrant, challenging viewers in its glorious array of brilliant colors. It fears none.

Rows of graffiti- practicing grounds along the railway track? I dream of being able to take only a camera and myself, hop the fence, and document every piece of railway graffiti. It is beautiful, both astonishing and heart wrenching to pass. It heartens me to know that such art is more than possible or probably; it is. And yet it tears me apart to know that it is just out of reach, my forbidden fruit of paradise. I wish I was brave enough to learn my own graffiti in the midst of the night, but I lack the courage even to climb a low fence and photograph to my heart's content. For now, I can only dream, and practice my sharpie graffiti.

Silenced Army

BRITISH MILITARY CEMETARY

Life and Death rarely agree, but here they compromise. They watch us silently from underneath the luscious trees, all of them sharing the cross that is so prevalent in Rome. Nothing and no one can faze them; they are a silenced army. The flowers grow respectfully; none dare to surpass the height of the mighty stones, the graves of the fallen brave.

The Secret Garden

AVENTINE HILL

The path looks like something from The Secret Garden. At the end of the steep, slippery cobblestones lies a locked gate. Tantalizing, like the hallucinatory mirage in the middle of the Sahara; but no, this is no mirage. It is tangible. Around the corner, we enter.

This is not The Secret Garden; no, it is our secret garden. My mouth waters in anticipation for the unbloomed oranges, but there is no trace of fruit. Just like the mirage garden, the promise of the oranges lingers just out of reach. The hidden fruit of seasons past and seasons to come mocks us disparagingly.

Junko told me of Tuscany, the land of the twig trees with the fluffy tops. Our garden is full of them! As if the foliage is not enough, there are huge potted mini-trees, bursting with air, our substance of life. At the end of the pathway, marble lines the seating area. I sit atop the world, looking out. To my right, marble steps meet my eye. To my left, a sharp drop leads to oblivion.

The marble is alive; I can feel her pain through every crack, every tear in her weary body. It is as if centuries upon centuries of insects spent their lives ripping at the marble, chipping away at her perfection. But perfection be damned! She still stands, her character ever more alive, and she is more beautiful than ever. It will take a much more massive insect to do her true damage; for now, the smaller ones scurry back in shame, back to the leaves they used to enjoy chewing.